His Mafia Queen

Luck of the Irish

GABRIEL

"I can't fucking believe that asshole."

I'm in the passenger seat of the SUV with my bodyguard. My other guy is at a café across the street from Riley's house, keeping an eye out for Beckett and probably eating his weight in Irish baked goods.

"What's up, boss?"

"I'm fine," I mutter. "Let's just get to the club. I don't want to be gone long."

While we drive through the hellish Boston traffic, I replay the conversation with Riley's father over and over in my mind. It was, to put it mildly, a shitshow.

And I have no idea what I'm going to tell Riley. I can only imagine the disappointment on her face. She'd hoped her father would do this one thing for her, and...

No. He was too much of a prick to give his blessing to us. So much for the fairytale wedding. Rory's nasty glare is burned into my brain, as are the quick events at the bar downstairs from the apartment.

We'd no sooner sat at the bar and ordered our beers from the bartender when Rory turned to stare at me with the nastiest look on his face. As if I was a walking pile of shit.

"I'm going to be honest. I don't like you, I don't like your kind, and I sure as hell don't want you marrying my daughter. If you have something else you want to talk about, hockey or football or whatever you guineas like to cheer for, I'm all ears. Soccer? Futbol?" he sneers as he says the final world.

"Wow. Racial slurs. Real nice. Classy. Just what I'd expect from my future father-in-law." I took a fortifying inhale, wondering if Riley would break up with me if I punched her father in the face.

He lifted a shoulder. "I call it like I see it. Your type isn't welcome around here. And don't ever call me that again or I'll fuck you up."

"Is that a threat?"

"It is."

"Well. I guess this conversation is over. There's no point in trying to set any differences aside for the sake of a person we both love."

He shrugs again. "I know you're looking for my blessing. I'm not giving it, so you can fuck right off. I don't want my daughter marrying an Italian. Period."

With that, he spits on the floor, which is littered with sawdust, cigarette butts, and other garbage. What a motherfucker.

"Riley's going to do what she wants anyway, so I don't know why the two of you even bothered coming here. Should've stayed in Florida."

"At least we can agree on one thing."

We gave each other hard stares. Sizing each other up. This was the true man-to-man conversation.

"You're a real piece of shit," I finally said.

"Like I haven't heard that before."

Shaking my head, I walked out. Because I respect Riley, I didn't hit the guy — or worse.

"What the fuck is this?" I growl, suddenly ripped from my thoughts. I stare out the window at the dark clouds over the city. Just an hour ago it was sunny.

"Forecast calls for some storm. Supposed to get real foggy," my driver says.

I mutter some expletives in Italian. This trip is getting worse by the hour. My phone buzzes, with a text from Andre, saying to call him immediately.

I do. "What's up?"

"You ignored my texts? Sir, I've been trying to reach you."

I roll my eyes. Now is not the time for work drama. "Been a little busy here in Boston, Andre."